


Knock Knock

by LiraelClayr007



Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pining, Protective Bucky Barnes, caring bucky, there was only one...bath?, tub sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: “Barton,” Bucky says softly, resting a hand on his forearm. He pointedly does not think about the feeling in his palm, the feeling of Barton’s skin against his own. “Barton,” he says again, a little louder this time. Eyelashes flutter, and blue eyes try to focus on Bucky, who nods in response. “Good. You’re awake.”That’s not what he wants to say, or do. He wants to smile, he wants to pull Clint close and hold him and kiss those sleep-heavy eyelids. He wants to say, “Good morning, sunshine,” or something equally ridiculous, because Clint makes him feel ridiculous.Barton.Barton, not Clint. Pull yourself together, Barnes.In which Bucky and an injured Clint have to hide out in a safehouse, where Bucky would much rather be kissing Clint than tending to his wounds.So of course, in true logical fashion, he decides that Clint needs a bath.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Bucky Barnes Bingo! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807465
Comments: 39
Kudos: 191
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020, Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	Knock Knock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pherryt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/gifts).



> I'm filling two bingo squares with this one!
> 
> Bucky Barnes Bingo: hot water (hahaha) - B4  
> Winterhawk Bingo: protective Bucky Barnes - I4
> 
> But really it was all an excuse to write a bathtub fic for Pherryt, because it's all her fault I'm in this flaming dumpster anyway. 😉 (or is it a flaming bathtub in this case??)

“Come on,” Bucky says, pushing the safehouse door open. He loops his arm around Barton’s waist, supporting most of his weight, pulling the two of them inside.

“You don’t need to baby me,” Barton grumbles. He doesn’t deny the help, allowing Bucky to lead him to the sofa where he nearly collapses with relief, but still he grumbles. “I’m not really hurt. Just banged up.”

Bucky appraises him: the colorful bruise on his cheekbone, the blood dripping from one earlobe, the way he curls slightly–protectively–around his right side. Probably bruised ribs. Hopefully not broken.

Sighing, Bucky leans back on the sofa and closes his eyes. “I’d feel better if we were at the Tower, but since that’s not an option, you’re stuck with me. I can stitch up your ear if it needs it, but mostly what you need is to get cleaned up and to rest. Good thing this place has a nice bed.”

Barton chuckles. “I still can’t get over the idea that the fearsome Winter Soldier is so particular about comfortable beds.” He throws up an arm to block the cushion Bucky throws at him. “Ow!” Bucky opens his mouth to apologize but before he can Barton says, “Nah, you didn’t hurt me. _Laughing_ hurt me, I may have cracked a rib.”

Bucky wants to throw something else, but there’s nothing soft enough at hand. He just wants to annoy Barton, not actually hurt him. The fight and consequent escape did a good enough job of that.

He scans the small apartment; he’s crashed here several times before, but it’s habit. When he sees nothing’s out of place he stands and makes his way to the kitchen and the first-aid kit he knows is stashed there. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s get that ear taken care of, then we’ll figure out the rest. You hungry?”

Barton perks up at the mention of food. As usual. “Mmm. Any pizza in the freezer? Just please tell me there’s more than protein bars and MREs. I can’t live on MREs, Buck. Look at me, I’m a growing boy.”

Bucky looks down at himself, then looks at the long arms and legs on Barton. “You’ve done enough growing for the both of us, Barton,” Bucky says, his voice dry. He turns away, hiding his smile. He can’t help it, Barton whimpering about needing ‘real food’ is a good sign that he’s going to be okay. He’s got to be careful, though. That pout on Barton’s face, it churns up too many feelings. Too many thoughts of what he’d like to do to that face.

Those lips.

He schools his face, carefully pulling the stoic Winter Soldier mask back across his features before he turns to Barton with the first-aid kit. Barton bites his lip when Bucky cleans the wound on his earlobe, but he doesn’t jerk away. Bucky looks only at the earlobe. “No need for stitches,” he says, hoping Barton doesn’t notice the slight hitch in his voice.

“Thanks, Buck,” Barton says, turning to smile at Bucky when he’s finished bandaging the ear. “Nicely done, I can still wear my aids and everything.”

“I didn’t want to give you a reason to ignore me.”

An odd look flashes in Barton’s eyes, but it’s gone before Bucky can get a hold on what it might mean. So he just says, “You want some coffee?”

Barton’s almost asleep on the sofa; he’s had four cups of coffee and half of the pizza Bucky found in the freezer, but he’s still wearing his gear and his boots and Bucky knows if he goes to sleep like that he’ll regret it. Even if the ribs aren’t cracked they’re at least bruised, and he’ll feel much better if he gets cleaned up and into some more comfortable clothes before he goes to sleep. There are sweats and tees of all sizes in the bedroom; the pants might be a little short for Barton but they’ll at least be better than the sweaty and grimy pants he’s got on now.

Glancing over again, Bucky sees that Barton’s gone past almost asleep and is snoring softly, his head lolled against the back of the sofa, legs propped up on the small coffee table in front of him. Something in his dreams must startle him because he jerks his head, just slightly, and a bit of too long blond hair flops across his forehead to fall over one eye. Bucky has to ball his hands into fists to keep from brushing that hair back from his face. When Barton wakes up he’s going to tell him to get a haircut.

To keep himself from doing something he’ll regret, he abruptly stands and stomps– _quietly_ stomps–to the bathroom. A bath. Barton needs a bath. It’ll get him clean, and the hot water will be good for his aching muscles. It’s a great idea, if he can wake Barton up and convince him. He turns on the tap, testing the water, and eyes the tub with suspicion. It’s a big tub, both longer and wider than the average bathtub. He fleetingly wonders how they ended up with such nice furniture in a random safehouse, but figures Stark had something to do with it. Probably got stuck in a low-budget safehouse once and decided they all needed an upgrade.

As if luxury matters when your life is on the line.

But that’s not important now, so he pushes the thoughts aside and focuses instead on the water, and finding soap and shampoo, and making sure there are towels. There are plenty, big fluffy towels in every color. Bucky pulls out a purple one, sets it on the counter, almost without thought.

“Barton,” Bucky says softly, resting a hand on his forearm. He pointedly does not think about the feeling in his palm, the feeling of Barton’s skin against his own. “Barton,” he says again, a little louder this time. Eyelashes flutter, and blue eyes try to focus on Bucky, who nods in response. “Good. You’re awake.”

That’s not what he wants to say, or do. He wants to smile, he wants to pull Clint close and hold him and kiss those sleep-heavy eyelids. He wants to say, “Good morning, sunshine,” or something equally ridiculous, because Clint makes him feel ridiculous.

Barton. _Barton_ , not Clint. Pull yourself together, Barnes.

Still trying to focus, Barton says, “I am?”

Bucky almost laughs. “Can’t go to sleep yet, Barton. You need to get out of these clothes, for one thing.”

Barton winks. “Trying to get me naked, Buck?”

Bucky freezes. Is he that obvious? But before he can say anything, Barton’s talking again, his words still muzzy with sleep. “I’m pretty tired, Buck, I really think I should just change and go to bed. Maybe another time.”

“Up, Barton.” Bucky’s voice is almost a growl, trying to cover the desire that leapt up in his stomach at Barton’s words. “You’re a mess. I ran a bath.”

“Excellent,” Barton says. It’s almost a purr. He lets Bucky pull him to his feet and lead him, almost limping, to the bathroom.

There’s an awkward pause at the bathroom door. “Need any help?” Bucky asks. He’s honestly not sure which answer he wants.

“Nah, I’m good.” Barton does an odd shuffle-hop into the room, looks down and then says, “Actually…”

Bucky nearly winces, but the mask holds. Boots. Of course Barton doesn’t want to twist himself around, pulling off boots, with hurt ribs. “Sorry,” he says. “Sit down, I’ll get them off. Don’t know why I didn’t help you get them off earlier, actually. Your feet and ankles feeling okay?”

Barton glowers again. “Told ya you don’t need to baby me. I’ll take the bath, though,” he adds, quick, when Bucky glances at the tub of steaming water. “I mean, it’s not like you’re actually gonna wash me, right?” He adds a wink and waggles his eyebrows so Bucky can just roll his eyes and turn away, which is just as well because if he has to look at Clint while thinking about washing him…

Gingerly Barton sits on the closed toilet and Bucky crouches in front of him. He spends the next two minutes learning how to remove someone’s boots without actually touching him. Or looking at him. Or even remembering that he exists. Not that it works. He’s trying to remember why he thought this was a good idea in the first place: putting Clint in a steamy room, naked, soaking in a bath, with only a flimsy door between them?

He’s going to lose his mind.

“You okay there, Buck? You look a little flushed.”

Bucky coughs, nearly chokes. “Hot in here. From the bath.”

On his way out the door, desperately avoiding eye contact, Bucky gestures towards the counter. “There’s a towel for you. I’ll grab some clothes from the bedroom while you’re soaking; the pants’ll probably be too short but they’ll be clean. Just–” He closes his eyes for a moment, thankful his back is to Barton now and so he can’t see the desperate look on his face. “Just yell if you need anything,” he finally finishes, then closes the door.

Bucky’s pacing in the front room, pretending his supersoldier ears don’t let him hear everything happening in the bathroom, trying and failing to block the images of forming in his mind. But his imagination is too good, his mind’s eye too strong, and when he hears the hiss Clint makes when he first sinks into the steaming water he can’t help but picture the water sluicing over his lithe, bruised form. After some splashing that Bucky figures must be Clint washing and rinsing his hair he can’t take it anymore; he stops his pacing with a stomp, right in front of the television and snaps it on rather more firmly than necessary. He’s glad he’d been thinking enough to not use his metal hand. He doesn’t want to have to buy another tv.

There’s nothing on the television, as usual. But Bucky doesn’t want to be entertained, he just wants to block out the sound of Barton. _Naked_ Barton. No, don’t think about naked…

Bucky sits up with a start. How had he fallen asleep? How long had he been sleeping? The stupid show on the television doesn’t look like the same stupid show he’d turned on before he’d fallen asleep. And Barton…

Muting the tv, he listens for sounds of splashing from the other room. Sounds of a towel on skin or a person walking on the creaking floor.

Nothing.

“Barton?” he yells. Even he can hear the hesitance in his voice.

No answer.

“You need clothes? I meant to grab some, but I fell asleep. I can get them now.”

Still nothing.

Panic prickles the back of Bucky’s neck. “This isn’t funny, Barton.” He’s standing right outside the bathroom door now, practically pressing his forehead against it as he yells. Then he decides. “This had better not be a joke, because I’m getting in there one way or another,” he says, then crashes through the door.

He’s into the bathroom in a fraction of a second, wood splintering and flying everywhere. It only takes another fraction to realize three things.

One. There had been no need to break down the door. He’d closed it himself, and he’d never heard the click of it being locked. He could have just turned the handle.

Two. Barton’s aids on the bathroom counter explain why he didn’t answer Bucky’s shouting.

Three. Barton, startled and rising from the bathtub, water streaming from his body, is even more beautiful than Bucky had ever imagined.

He tries not to stare–he really does–but he just can’t help himself. He looks Barton up and down before he even realizes what he’s doing, then jerks his head away. Which doesn’t do any good, because he ends up staring at Barton in the mirror. He shuts his eyes, puts a hand over them for good measure, and feels the heat rising to his face.

Barton clears his throat. He refuses to look, but he hears the smile in Barton’s voice when he says, “Maybe next time you could just try the handle? I could have drowned.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Have to look at me, Bucky. Either that or hand me my aids. Otherwise I just have to guess what you’re saying.”

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles again. Then he turns towards the tub and says, “I didn’t mean–” But he catches sight of Barton again, And he’s just standing there with his hands on his hips, grinning at Bucky. So instead he says, “Why aren’t you back in the–what are you even doing?”

Barton’s grin widens. “You’re the one startled me onto my feet like this. The least you could do is help me back into the water. I’m injured, remember?”

It isn’t a grin. It’s a _smirk_. The son of a bitch is _daring_ him. Well Bucky Barnes doesn’t back down from a dare. He’s not afraid of an unarmed, naked archer.

Before he can think too much he’s standing beside the tub, an arm around Barton’s back, the warm dampness of his skin seeping through the thin cotton of his sleeve. Barton lets Bucky take his weight, allows himself to be lowered slowly into the water. But when Bucky starts to pull his arm from behind Barton he shifts his weight back suddenly, trapping Bucky’s arm, and throwing him off balance. Before he can right himself Barton grabs the front of Bucky’s shirt and pulls him down on top of him, sending water flying in every direction.

“Wha–?” Bucky sputters. “Barton, what the fuck?”

Barton whoops with laughter as Bucky spits out water and pushes wet strands of hair out of his eyes, attempting to sit up without touching Barton anywhere he shouldn’t. Which doesn’t make much sense, since Barton’s the one who got him in this mess in the first place.

Barton, who is still laughing.

Barton, naked and pressed up against him.

Barton, putting his mouth close to Bucky’s ear, whispering.

“I just got tired of waiting.”

Everything goes still; some part of Bucky’s mind knows the world is still going on around him but for the moment he’s wrapped in perfect–if unexpected–happiness. He’s got wet, grimy clothes clinging to him, and hair plastered to his face and neck, and he’s pretty sure his boots are filling with water, but all he can think of is Clint’s breath in his ear and the slippery skin under his hands. The two heartbeats filling his sensitive ears.

And yet. He pulls back just enough that Clint can see his face, his lips. “Are you sure?”

Clint’s chest vibrates with a low, rumbling laugh. “I just pulled you into my bathtub, Buck. Does that seem like I’ve got doubts?”

Instead of answering, Bucky presses his lips to Clint’s.

He’s been thinking of this for...months. Of how it could happen, of how he could be cool and charming. Maybe it would be after a battle, in the high of the adrenaline rush. Maybe they’d be all drowsy and cozy after a team movie night, and they’d be the last two in the common room, and he’d push Clint back onto the sofa and forget about words. Or maybe he’d just pass Clint his morning coffee and follow up with a kiss.

Somehow the idea of a first kiss in a bathtub never crossed his mind.

But it doesn’t matter. Clint’s lips are soft, and just this side of insistent, and his hands are on the side of Bucky’s face, then tangled in his hair, and Bucky can’t stop himself moaning into Clint’s mouth. Bucky’s not sure what to do with his own hands; their position is rather awkward, so he’s trying to both hold himself up and keep himself from touching Clint where he shouldn’t–it’s just their first kiss, right? But that pretext goes out the window when Clint gives him a rather wicked grin and, with a splash, flips their positions. “You never got cleaned up after the mission,” he says. “I think maybe you need a bath.”

Glaring, Bucky says, “I thought you were hurt.”

Clint’s grin widens. “Oh, I am. Just not as bad as you thought.” Bucky, momentarily forgetting the strangeness of their situation, pushes Clint up so he’s straddling his hips and runs his hands over Clint’s ribcage. Clint’s eyebrows raise.

“I’m checking for bruised or broken ribs,” Bucky says, all business. Clint raises his arms above his head with a wink.

Bucky smacks him in the stomach. Not hard, just enough to make a point.

“You were faking!”

Clint has the decency to blush. Not much, but Bucky’s eyes are enhanced. “Maybe a little. But the bruise on my pretty face is real. And my earlobe too.”

“Your ribs are fine?”

“I have the minor aches I have after any battle. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m not a supersoldier either, so all this leaping around and dodging bad guys hurts. But yeah, my ribs are alright, as far as can be expected. They’re maybe a bit banged up after you landed on top of me. You’re not exactly light.”

“But–” Bucky starts, but he sees the twinkle in Clint’s eyes. Instead of finishing he splashes Clint in the face.

Clint responds by kissing Bucky solidly on the mouth.

Yeah, he could get used to this.

A minute or an hour later–probably not an hour, the water is still hot–Clint pulls away, winks, and stands up. “You really do need a bath,” he says, stepping out of the tub. “But do you usually bathe in your clothes? Seems like it would be hard to get clean that way.”

Bucky wants to answer, truly he does, but he’s transfixed by the sight of Clint standing next to the tub, water glistening on his naked skin.

“See something you like?” There’s a smile in Clint’s voice, and when Bucky’s eyes make the long journey up Clint’s body to his face, the smile he sees is...soft. Genuine. Almost...vulnerable.

All Bucky’s nervousness melts away. He pulls himself from the tub, ignoring the puddle forming underneath him, and pulls Clint into a loose embrace. Looking into his eyes, he says, “I didn’t need to see you with your clothes off to see that, Clint.” He feels the blush rising in his cheeks, almost wanting to pull the syrupy sweet words back. He clears his throat and adds, “Sorry for being so sappy. Must be the squishy boots.”

Clint rolls his eyes, but his smile is still true. “Maybe you should take them off then.”

Without a word Bucky sits on the edge of the tub and goes through the cumbersome process of removing his sodden boots. When he’s done he looks up at Clint–quite a lovely picture, lounging naked against the counter, watching him take his boots off–and drawls, “Anything else?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Biting back first a snort and then a laugh, Bucky decides to enjoy this. He peels off his socks, slowly, one at a time. Then he starts with buckles and straps, checking each one carefully, wondering how long it will take before Clint just gives in and attacks. He watches through the wet curtain of his hair, sees the way Clint bites his lower lip, the way his eyes follow every movement of Bucky’s hands, the way his own hands clench and unclench in what Bucky guesses is a Herculean effort to hold the rest of his body still. By the time Bucky’s tac vest falls to the floor and he’s pulling the hem of his shirt up his torso Clint is done, just _done_ , Bucky can tell by the ragged breathing coming from across the room...and because suddenly Clint’s hands are on his skin. Helping. Pushing. _Clawing_. His own breath quickens when the wet shirt is pulled over his head and is flung against the wall–he doesn’t even know who throws it–and their skin is pressed together and…

This is new, this heat, this slippery electricity. Somehow his lips find Clint’s neck and he can taste sweat and soap and something like lust on his skin. “Clint,” he breathes, feeling skin and arms and fingers and breath. It’s so much. “Clint. _Fuck_.”

“Well, that’s the general idea, once we get those pants off,” Clint says, laughing, into his hair. Somewhere in the back of his mind Bucky notes that Clint must have put his aids back in at some point, but then he feels fingers at the front of his pants and every other thought flies from his head.

“Yes please,” Bucky says. It’s practically a babble, practically begging, and he _doesn’t care_.

Clint’s hands are calloused and strong, and the one wrapped around his dick feels delicious. He can’t help the whimper that escapes his lips. “Yes please,” he says again, and Clint’s low chuckle is musical and intoxicating. His hand begins to move, twisting and pulling exactly right, and in almost no time Bucky is clutching at Clint, his legs losing purchase on the slippery floor. He shouts as he comes, a wordless, guttural sound that echoes off the tiled walls and rebounds into his sensitive ears, and he’s so overwhelmed and overstimulated that he nearly misses Clint’s soft murmurings. “I’ve got you,” he says, over and over. “I’ve got you, Buck.”

Bucky’s legs aren’t working yet, so Clint eases him down onto the edge of the tub and peels his pants the rest of the way off. “Come on,” Clint says, grinning. “You really do need a bath.”

“But what about…?” Bucky glances at Clint’s (masterful? glorious? fucking _beautiful_?) erection.

Clint winks. “I can wait. Besides, I didn’t say anything about you taking a bath _alone_.”

Clint washes Bucky’s hair.

Bucky can’t remember the last time someone washed his hair. He’s pretty sure it was his ma, back when he was a kid.

Nearly a century ago.

But those hands. Those hands that do deadly magic with a bow are gentle and soothing on his scalp.

“How are you so good at this?” Bucky doesn’t mean to ask, but nothing seems to be in his control anymore, including his mouth. Maybe especially his mouth.

“I practice on Nat.”

Bucky doesn’t jump, he goes perfectly still. Clint’s hands leave his hair and Bucky’s heart threatens to stop, but before it can Clint’s arms are around him and he can feel Clint’s heart beating against his own. “I don’t _take baths_ with her,” he says. “She’s...my best friend. My _family_. But sometimes she needs reminding that she’s a person, not just a spy, not just an assassin, not just a piece on someone’s chessboard. So I wash her hair, or paint her toenails, or bake brownies with her in the middle of the night. I don’t know how much it helps, but it’s what I can do.”

Closing his eyes again, Bucky leans his head back on Clint’s chest. “You really do have magic hands.” When Clint starts massaging his scalp again, leaning his head back to rinse out the shampoo, Bucky says, “Natalia is lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have her.”

Bucky sits up, squeezing some of the water out of his hair, and maneuvers himself around so he’s facing Clint. Clint smiles at him, almost shyly, and says, “She’d like this, you know.”

Puzzled, Bucky says, “The bathtub?”

Clint groans, frustrated, and smacks his hand on the water. He mutters “ _Idiot_ ,” under his breath, either forgetting about Bucky’s supersoldier hearing or depending on it. Then it’s his turn to blush. He looks into Bucky’s eyes and says, “ _This_. You. Me. Toge–” A look of horror falls onto his face. “Wait. Buck, is this just _sex_ to you? Because...I mean, I’m not saying no, but I was kinda hoping–”

Bucky cuts him off with a kiss.

It isn’t just a kiss. It’s everything he’s been trying to say for the past few hours. Days. Weeks.

Okay, months.

_Do you know how ridiculously adorable you are in the morning, stumbling into the kitchen and straight to the coffee pot? Hair sticking out in all directions, bandaids taped across your nose or your cheek or the back of your hand, arms outstretched like some kind of coffee zombie? I haven’t figured out how your system handles all that caffeine. When you bleed, is it actual blood, or is it coffee?_

_Have you noticed that I try to sit by you on movie nights? Stevie teases me mercilessly, says I spend more time watching you than the movie. The punk._

_I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, I didn’t know what I was doing back then either, but back then it was all dark corners and secret meetings and “I’ll probably never see you again so what’s in a name?” But I can’t even figure out how to tell if you like me–you flirt with **everyone**. I think you’d probably flirt with a tree branch if you thought it would do you some good. It’s infuriating._

_And fucking adorable._

_And then there’s every time I see you teaching a kid how to hold a bow for the first time. How to nock an arrow, how to sight a target, how to hold the string just brushing her cheek. Every single time I fall in love with you again. You are a quality human, Clint Barton. Among the best I’ve ever known._

_I wish I could just figure out how to tell you._

No, it’s not just a kiss. It’s everything he can’t say. It’s–

Clint breaks away, pupils blown, breathing heavy. “I can’t believe…” He pauses, pulling another deep breath. “Buck, I can’t believe I’m actually here. With you. Even if it’s just–”

This time Clint is silenced by Bucky’s finger on his lips. “Shush,” Bucky says. “I’m not lookin’ for a one night stand, sweetheart.”

Their next kiss is soft as snowflakes on eyelashes.

They’re both breathing heavy when they part, and then Clint winks and says, “So we’re talking a long weekend, then?”

Bucky growls and splashes Clint in the face; laughing, Clint splashes back. Soon there is water everywhere and they’re both laughing and their bodies are so tangled together it’s a wonder either of them can breathe. Bucky’s grown hard again, and when their dicks rub against each other in the melee he actually keens.

“Ohh,” Clint says, his voice hitching in the middle. He gulps a breath, then murmurs into Bucky’s ear, “You ready for me now, supersoldier?”

Unable to find his voice, Bucky nods.

In unspoken agreement they scramble to their feet and out of the tub, somehow not falling and creating more bruises on Clint’s already colorful skin. Bucky snags the purple towel from the counter and somehow wraps it around both of them; they halfheartedly rub at each other’s hair and skin with the towel while they stumble toward the bedroom, attempting to remove some of the water from their bodies while leaving their lips and as much skin as possible connected. When Clint wobbles a step, wincing with pain as his ankle twists underneath him, Bucky catches him, mutters something about men who can’t even walk from one room to another without injuring themselves, then scoops him into his arms, bridal style. He tosses Clint onto the bed, not even bothering to pull the covers down, barely noticing that he’s still almost wrapped in a towel. He’s there with him in a moment, and it’s all lips and tongues and hands and hair and so much skin and Bucky’s lost in everything until Clint’s murmuring into his ear again.

“Gotta feel you inside me, Buck. Please.”

Bucky can’t breathe, or move, or think. He’s awash in sensation, in stubble on his cheek and lips and breath on the curve of his ear, so lost in it all that it takes several long seconds for Clint’s words to penetrate his brain. So the room has fallen into silence when he finally says, “Yeah. Yes. Okay. _Yeah_.”

He feels Clint press a smile into his neck. “Yeah,” he says, adding a few kisses for emphasis.

“Do you have–”

“Check the–”

“–drawer, yeah, Stark–”

“–usually keeps these places–”

“–pretty well stocked.”

They fumble as they talk, voices overlapping, scrabbling for the bedside table, trying to find lube without letting go of each other. Bucky’s heart is pounding, almost in his throat; he’s drowning in a sea of anticipation and nerves and lust and love and when Clint presses the tube into his hand he’s so startled he almost drops it. Clint laughs, his head thrown back on the pillow, and Bucky laughs into his warm chest, their hands still folded together. 

Just like that the frantic energy in the room drops; the desire is still there–the _ache_ , the _need_ –but the desperate _nownownow_ rush is gone, replaced by something deeper.

Something _true_.

When Bucky raises himself above Clint again, looks down at the beautiful man looking back at him, all he wants is to give Clint everything he’s ever wanted, ever needed. He wants to make him feel safe, and protected, and loved. He wants to make him _feel_.

Truly, he wants to give Clint _everything_.

Clint must see something in Bucky’s eyes, because he goes still, his own eyes questioning.

“I love you,” Bucky says. “I...I just thought you should know. Before.”

Bucky is no stranger to waiting. Sometimes a sniper waits hours, without moving, for his target to step into exactly the right place. Sometimes a mission means staking out–watching, learning about a target, learning his habits, learning every movement. Sometimes this takes days. Weeks even.

The time between Bucky’s declaration and Clint’s response is the longest wait of his life.

“Buck.” The word comes out of Clint in a whoosh. “ _Buck_. I…” His voice gives out, and there’s an odd, almost pained look on his face. Bucky’s heart drops.

It must show on his face, in his eyes, because Clint begins to frantically shake his head. “No! I didn’t mean…” He trails off again, and this time Bucky can see the look for what it is: frustration.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to say anything,” Bucky says, brushing a kiss to Clint’s forehead. His temple. His jaw. “I just wanted you to know.” He kisses Clint’s shoulder. “It’s not like I was expectin’ a proposal, sweetheart.”

Clint wiggles a bit until he gets a hand against Bucky’s chest, then pushes him up until there’s a bit of space between them. He holds up the other hand, middle and ring finger folded down, pinky and pointer finger pointed up, thumb making an “L” with the pointer finger.

The sign for I love you.

Something opens inside Bucky, a flower he didn’t know was waiting to bloom, a Fourth of July firework he didn’t realize had been lit. For a breath he’s dumbfounded–how can he be so much bigger inside than outside? How can one person hold so much happiness?

And then he’s lost again, because Clint smiles, almost shy, but then ruins it by winking, and Bucky laughs and surges down to him, kissing the breath out of him. The lube is still trapped between their hands and Clint reminds Bucky with a small squeeze.

Oh yeah. That.

Clint is already panting, his pupils blown, eager and waiting. Bucky moves slow, holding Clint’s arms down, pressing kisses down Clint’s chest, pausing to pull the hard nub of a nipple between his teeth. He’s rewarded with Clint’s gasp and the strain of the lithe body beneath him. He grins into Clint’s chest, then, teasing some more, pulls away. “So eager,” he says. Clint pushes his chest up, reaching for Bucky’s touch, but Bucky’s got him more or less trapped. He licks Clint’s nipple again, just a brief touch, and Clint’s frustrated growl and buck makes Bucky chuckle. “So eager,” he says again.

“As if you aren’t.”

He wants to laugh, but it’s too fun, this teasing. This close-to-begging Clint. The thought crosses his mind–just a flash, but nearly overwhelming for the moment it’s there–of their roles being reversed. He tells his brain to remember that for another day, then goes back to his slow exploration of Clint’s chest. The scars that remind him of Clint’s humanity, his fragility. The muscles that, conversely, flood him with the unavoidable truth of Clint’s strength.

As his lips trail kisses lower and lower, closer and closer to where Bucky wants him to be, Clint squeezes his fingers and begins to moan. “Please, Buck. Bucky, _please_.” His voice is raw, wrecked, and Bucky hasn’t even touched his dick yet. Crawling up Clint’s body he kisses him softly on the mouth and repeats what Clint had said to him earlier. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Then he settles himself between Clint’s legs and, with no warning, swallows him whole.

Clint yelps and Bucky would smile but his mouth is full and his tongue is busy and it doesn’t matter because he loves every sound coming from Clint. Groans and curses and huffed out breaths and cracked sounds he wants to hear again and again. There are fingers in his hair now, tangling and tugging, on just the right side of painful. He moans a bit himself, and Clint makes a squeaking noise that Bucky will never forget.

While Clint is distracted Bucky drizzles lube onto the fingers of his right hand, and when Clint lets loose a particularly creative string of curses–even in the Army Bucky never heard the word “fuck” used in that many forms and that many times in a row–Bucky begins to rub his fingers around Clint’s hole. Clint yelps again, on the edge of overstimulated, but Bucky is relentless. He doesn’t let up with his mouth as he eases a finger inside Clint, up to the first knuckle, then the second. His own dick screams for attention but he pushes the need aside for the moment; Clint for now. This time he’s the one who has to wait.

When he’s got his finger all the way in, Clint starts full on babbling. “I’m good, Bucky, I’m good. Fuck me now, fuck me now, I’m good. Don’t make me fucking wait, I’m good!”

Bucky pulls his mouth off Clint with a pop. “Patience,” he murmurs, then goes back to work with both finger and lips and tongue. Clint’s babbles turn to whimpers, but Bucky can hear pleasure mixed in with the pleading.

After a few minutes he adds another finger.

“No more, Buck, I’m ready. Please oh please, I need you now, baby. Please don’t make me wait, I can take it.”

Bucky makes a negative “mmm-mmm” sound around Clint’s dick, and is rewarded with that lovely squeak again. And then, long and drawn out, “Buuuuuuck!” Bucky almost relents, but he doesn’t want to hurt Clint. So he waits a few minutes more, working his fingers in and out, then adds a third.

Clint is close to coming, possibly close to falling into oblivion from the sounds coming from his mouth, so Bucky takes pity on him.

He doesn’t want Clint to come too soon, so he lets go with his mouth and concentrates on opening him up. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs into Clint’s thigh, even as his brain makes some non-verbal noises of its own about said thigh. “We’re almost there. Almost there.” Clint’s fingers are scratching at his scalp, but he doesn’t mind. The tugs of pain give him focus, help keep him from shooting his load like a horny teenager, before he even gets inside Clint.

And then, teasing just a little, Bucky says lightly, “You ready for me, sweetheart?”

When Bucky pulls out his fingers Clint cries out at the emptiness, but Bucky’s right there, lining himself up, and slowly, slowly, pushing himself in. “More...more…” Clint pants, pulling at Bucky’s arms, frantic and needy. But Bucky is like stone. “Can’t,” he says through clenched teeth, then, “just...just wait.”

Bucky eases in a little more, and a little more, and with every small movement Clint’s voice cracks and babbles and moans. Bucky can’t make out individual words anymore, he’s lost in heat and pressure and electricity and holding back the inevitable. But his eyes take in everything–the way Clint’s biting at his lower lip, the way his pupils are so blown there’s only a hair’s breadth of color around them, the way his hair is starting to dry in wild spikes, except for one bit that’s plastered to his right temple.

And then he’s there, all the way there, buried deep within Clint, and Clint looks up at him with a look that says, _Please don’t ever leave._

Bucky’s done teasing, done playing. “I love you,” he rasps. “I know I said it already, bu–”

“Shut up,” Clint interrupts, half smiling, half out of his mind. “I love you too, Buck. But if you don’t start moving soon I’m going to kick your old man ass across the room and fuck you myself.”

“You and what army?”

“We have a–”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Bucky says, stopping Clint’s words with an index finger across his lips. “Please. Now is really not the time.”

Clint starts to laugh, but he only gets out half a giggle before Bucky pulls out almost all the way and then slams back into him, not holding back. His laugh turns into a cry, a shout, an exaltation. “Yes!” he cries, and then, “Bucky! Fuck, yes, don’t stop!”

As if he could stop now. As if he could ever stop. He’s a runaway freight train, and he doesn’t care if the bridge is out ahead. Clint is there to hold on to, to catch him when he falls.

“Close,” Bucky somehow manages to breathe out. He searches, then finds a few more words. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

The words break Clint’s tenuous hold on reality and he comes, spilling onto his stomach, a wordless cry escaping his lips. That’s all it takes for Bucky; the world turns white as he chases Clint’s pleasure, gripping his hips so tightly he’s surely adding bruises but Clint doesn’t seem to mind. In the (tiny) dim corner of his brain capable of contemplating more than “feels so good” and “fuck yeah” and “clintclintclint” he reminds himself to check Clint over later and ice the bruises that need it. The ankle too. That same bit of brain keeps him from crushing Clint’s already bruised and banged up body; instead he rolls to the side after he’s spent, so they’re side by side on their backs, chests heaving and hearts trying to find some kind of normal rhythms again.

Clint throws a leg over Bucky’s (the one with the not-hurt ankle, Bucky notices with approval) at the same time Bucky pats around with his hand until he finds Clint’s so he can twine their fingers together. Bucky smiles into the silence. “We’ve _got_ to do that again.”

“Think I can have a few minutes to recover?” Clint asks. “I can’t actually feel my toes yet.”

Bucky tilts his head, as if considering. “Tell you what. Let me be the little spoon, and I’ll even let you take a nap first.” Clint responds by immediately rolling Bucky to the side and curling himself around him.

It’s the best sleep Bucky’s had in years.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Tony says.

“Open the door,” Steve says.

“They’re grown men, what kind of trouble could they be in?”

“Open the damn door,” Nat says.

“It’s only been what, three days? What’s got you so worried?”

Steve and Nat hold up their phones.

“Right.”

Tony opens the panel next to the safehouse door and starts fiddling with the controls inside.

“We wouldn’t even need you if you didn’t add that ‘special override.’” Steve says. He even makes little finger quotes when he says the word.

“It’s only when the doors are locked from the inside, Cap. You know me, I like to feel needed.” Tony winks.

“Likes to meddle, more like,” Natasha says under her breath.

“What was that, itsy bitsy?”

Natasha just rolls her eyes.

Steve and Natasha have been getting text updates from Bucky and Clint for three days. All along the lines of:

 **BUCKY** : barton injured on mission. laying low and so he can heal. both safe. will check in soon.

 **CLINT** : cut my ear and bruised my ribs. drinking coffee and eating pizza. home soon. barnes is fine.

Three days, and they’re less than an hour south of the Tower. Three days for bruised ribs? Three days without a single selfie from Clint? And no mention of _Dog Cops_?

Something’s up.

There’s a soft beep and an even softer click, and Tony turns the handle and the door opens. “There, see how useful I am?”

Steve fights mightily to keep from rolling his eyes. He fails.

The apartment is quiet, and looks fairly unassuming; boots by the sofa, empty glasses and paper plates on the coffee table.

The bedroom door is closed.

Steve raps lightly on the doorframe with his knuckles then starts to open the door. “Bucky? Clint? We’re ju–”

He’s interrupted by twin thunks, as almost simultaneously an arrow and a knife pierce the door, their points just inches from Steve’s face.

“See?” Tony quips. “They’re fine.”

“Lock up on your way out!” Bucky drawls. They hear Clint laughing in the background.

“You’re paying to replace that door,” says Tony.

Two more thunks.

“Message received,” Tony answers.

Standing in the hallway, Natasha looks at Steve. Holding out her hand, grinning, she says, “You owe me twenty bucks.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU to all my bdbd sprinters, especially those who chomped on my snippets. You know who you are.


End file.
